Hungover. Why do I do this to myself? Not a drop of water last night. My brain is a bulbous yolk fastened hard into the left side of my skull. Shoots your equilibrium all to hell. Each movement, agony. Awoke beside some nameless, snoring, mass. I don’t know who she is, having only the vaguest recollection of OneForce slapping me on the back and telling me to go for it. So I did. And here we are. I don’t want to talk to her. Do I have to? The mere thought of it fills me with horror.
Bloody head is killing me. Been following the Israeli-Lebanon (or Israeli-Hezbollah if you’re into MainStream news labels) situation for so long it’s like there’s nothing else I’m supposed to do. I switch on CNN on sheer impulse power alone. Volume down. Pink Floyd up. Fill up a massive glass of water. I will drink several during the day in the hopes that the liquid will facilitate the transfer of the soft yolk that is my mind from the side of its cranium cage and float it somewhere closer to center. To what normalcy there be.
How many times do I have to do this to myself? And who ordered the bloody champagne? And good Christ, how much did it all cost? I check my wallet, knowing full well by the weight of the thing that I’ve spent the wad. Didn’t even leave myself a twenty for some kind of greasy spoon breakfast mess that my body always craves on days like this. Night guy always fucks the morning guy.
I hear some kind of movement from upstairs. It stirs. I shudder. I think of just running away into the streets but I can’t. Not because it would be intolerably rude –which of course it would be- but because this is a total stranger. What if she steals my laptop? Or worse? Had a buddy who did that, left a strange woman to her own devices in his hotel room and when he returned she’d taken a big shit in his suitcase. All over his clothes. True story.
Want a coffee. Will not help the yolk-mind situation, just dehydrates you more, right? Probably set my whole sobering up movement back anywhere from 45 minutes to an hour and a half but decades of heavy coffee use will not be denied on this day or any other. Gotta wait. Till she’s gone. She smells the coffee brewing and she might want one. Carrying this whole scene on much longer than it has to.
“I don’t normally do this type of thing,” she’ll say, and I’ll say “what, drink coffee?” and she’ll say, “no, you know, the one-night stand thing, I don’t normally do this type of thing.” Which will of course be bullshit and for alot of reasons. It’s not like my line of patter is particularly dazzling when I’m as drunk as I was last night. The fish has to pretty much leap into the boat all by itself.
No, it’s all bullshit and I’m caught like a rat in a cage, right in the middle of the damned contemptable thing, my yolk-mind fragile as a newborn and no coffee in my immediate future. An ugly situation by anyone’s standards and I have only myself to blame for any of it. And OneForce. Who knows where he ended up. Not here. I could use him right now, help me finesse this chick out the door with no hard feelings. He’s good at that. I’m not. Probably even take her to breakfast, be genuinely curious about her life or else talk her ear off.
She’s definitely awake now. Lord Tunderin’ Jesus I hope she just bolts out of here like a decent human being and doesn’t hold my feet to the fire and force some kind of conversation. Leave me to my hangover in peace. Peace? I look to the screen and it’s some kind of rocket propulsion device blasting either the North of Israel or the South of Lebanon or maybe some other place. I don’t pretend to know enough about who fires what, just that everybody’s firing. Stop or escalate, the only two choices in the MidEast conflagration right now, when it comes to the brass tacks. Put it out of your mind, Sense, Not ready to deal with any of that yet. Not now. She's coming. She’s coming down the stairs and I couldn’t be more afraid if she were the devil itself. Which she may well be. A bad feeling about this. Do I keep typing? Fuck.
Later,
-iSenseChange
nonRandomMP3age: “Wish You Were Here,” Pink Floyd
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